


Mine

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Established Relationship, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, It's Literally Nothing But What It Says On The Tin Folks, Jaskier Wears Geralt's Shirt, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Mentioned Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Morning After, Morning Cuddles, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Possessive Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sharing Clothes, Supportive Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:02:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22728841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: “You’re wearing my shirt.” It’s not entirely a statement, but not a question either.And glancing down at himself, yeah, Jaskier thinks, he is wearing Geralt’s shirt. It was the first thing he grabbed from the floor. He didn’t notice before, but the shirt smells like the Witcher. “I suppose I am,” he says quietly, looking up at the man.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 36
Kudos: 1151
Collections: Best Geralt





	Mine

It’s around this time where Jaskier would be chased out of bed by someone or other. A cuckolded spouse, a betrothed, or even a parent or a guardian.

That’s if he even stayed, of course. More often than not, the spouse was always somewhere nearby. And despite Jaskier’s affinity for putting himself in danger an alarming amount of times, he is actually quite fond of keeping his life, and wants to keep it going for as long as he can.

On the occasions where he did stay, he made sure to wake before the sun and be gone before it had even peered over the horizon. He loves a lot of people. He isn’t going to lie and say that he doesn’t form some sort of deeper attraction to people. Sometimes it’s their smiles, or the way the colours of their eyes are more complex up close. Sometimes it’s the way they laugh or sing along with him when he plays in taverns or in courts.

But what he has now, with Geralt, it’s deeper than all of that.

It’s been almost a year. And even with all of that time behind him, some part of his brain will still wake him early in the morning. When the first of the morning sun’s light creeps along the floorboards of their room for the night, he wakes to find himself still ensnared firmly in Geralt’s arms. Peering over his shoulder, Jaskier grins at the sight of the Witcher still peacefully sleeping and hair skewed. The Witcher doesn’t sleep much, but when he does, it drags him under and almost drowns him.

Jaskier settles back into the embrace. It’s nice, not having to plan an escape route either through the hallways of the tavern, or even out of the window. Geralt shuffles slightly; a Witcher-y sense of his registering the slight change in Jaskier’s breathing. His arms around the bard tighten, holding him firmly against his chest. Soft, gentle puffs of breath warm the back of Jaskier’s neck.

There’s a soft knock on the door.

Jaskier absolutely _does not_ whine. He does, though, sigh so sharply that it reminds him of being a teenager. He’ll have to answer the door. It’s no one from downstairs. Neither of them asked for a bath to be brought up. And they all agreed that they would get breakfast together downstairs later in the morning. The ride to the village was a long one; and with winter coming, even a normally short journey seems much longer and exhausting.

He slowly worms his way out of the hold around him, which is easier said than done. Geralt is _clingy._ Even if he manages to get out of his hold and move to sit at the edge of the bed, hands will paw at his back or hips and drag him back to bed if they manage to find a grip.

But Geralt seems too far gone in sleep to try and chase Jaskier now. As soon as he removes himself from the Witcher’s embrace, he shivers. Winter winds are becoming that much more biting as the weeks go by. That, and Jaskier is totally bare from last night. Sighing again, Jaskier grabs the first thing he sees, pulling it haphazardly over himself while also trying to not trip on discarded breeches and boots from the night before as he staggers over to the door. The tunic is oversized, almost slipping off a shoulder, but it’s long enough length-wise to get to his mid-thigh.

“Oh,” Jaskier blinks as he wrenches the door open. “Hi.”

Yennefer’s eyes drop down to his torso. A ghost of a smile shadows her lips. “I knew it,” she shakes her head. “Ciri wants to go to the market,” she glances over Jaskier’s shoulder, an eyebrow arching. “I can take her, if you’re both occupied.”

Jaskier’s mouth opens and closes for a second. For the first time in a long time, he can’t find anything worth saying. “Um,” he eventually manages to get out. Rubbing the back of his neck, he nods. “Yeah, it’s just that, um, Geralt is still asleep, and I’m,” he gestures vaguely to himself.

Yennefer lifts her chin. A smile fully curls along the length of her lips. “I’ll take her then.”

Jaskier nods. “Thanks.”

She waves him off, walking back down the hallway to her own room. They had enough coin for two rooms – one for him and Geralt, and another for Yennefer and Ciri. Ever since they found the sorceress a few days ago, dazed and battle-worn, wandering along a main road, Ciri has been by her side in every waking moment. She still adores both Geralt and Jaskier with everything she has, but there are times were Yennefer’s company is preferred. _Gods know why_ , Jaskier thinks.

Jaskier shuts the door. He stands in front of it for a moment. _I knew it_.

It’s not like he and Geralt are shy with their affections. And Yennefer is the most observant person that Jaskier has ever met.

He pads back through the room, slipping back into bed. He tries not to disturb the mattress too much, but there’s a soft sigh of breath from the body on the other side. “Who was it?” The question is almost entirely lost into the pillow.

Jaskier settles back against his pillow. “Yennefer. Ciri wants to go to the market, and she offered to take her.”

Geralt hums. He turns. An arm reaches out for Jaskier, pawing blindly for a moment until he has the bard’s waist ensnared. A silent order to _lie back down and go the fuck to sleep_.

The Witcher’s hand rests over his abdomen. His fingers curl slightly, into the fabric of the tunic. Geralt lifts his head. A small frown suddenly creases his brow. “You’re wearing my shirt.” It’s not entirely a statement, but not a question either. 

And glancing down at himself, _yeah_ , Jaskier thinks, he is wearing Geralt’s shirt. It was the first thing he grabbed from the floor. He didn’t notice before, but the shirt smells like the Witcher. “I suppose I am,” he says quietly, looking up at the man. His expression is totally unreadable. Jaskier reaches up, gently tucking a strand of Geralt’s hair back behind his ear. “I was hardly going to answer the door naked,” he says, a bit indignantly.

Geralt grunts. Jaskier can feel his face starting to warm. The Witcher is looking at him, unblinking, running amber eyes up and down his body. The shirt is certainly different from anything he usually wears. Form-fitting clothes in silks and linen, bright colours that are a more common sight in a royal court than out on the road. He and Geralt are almost the same height, but the Witcher is bigger. His shirt hangs off of one shoulder entirely, while the neck, slightly unbuttoned, leaves a deep V, revealing some of his chest.

Jaskier trails his fingers down the arch of Geralt’s cheekbone. “Could you...stop staring at me, please?” he asks. “Or at least, say something. You look insane.”

He doesn’t, for a time. Geralt’s fingers reach out and trail along the stretch of Jaskier’s collarbone. He moves the fabric of the shirt out of the way when it blocks his view of Jaskier’s skin. It’s terrain the Witcher knows all too well; nights have been spent tracking freckles that are flicked throughout Jaskier’s body; every stretch of skin mapped by fingers and lips.

But Geralt’s eyes drift away from his skin to the shirt. Most of the laces aren’t even done up properly, let alone strung together. Geralt loosens those that are, exposing more of Jaskier’s chest. He fights the urge to throw a hand over himself. _Really Geralt,_ the words try and fight up through his throat. _I’m allowed to have **some** dignity_.

Then again, one word from the Witcher, and Jaskier would have the shirt off and flung over to some corner of the room.

Instead, there’s a small purring sound that comes out of the Witcher’s throat. “You should wear my clothes more often,” Geralt says gruffly, scooping an arm around Jaskier and lying back down.

Jaskier could make the argument that Geralt doesn’t own a lot of clothes to begin with. Though, that would leave Geralt in a perpetual state of being shirtless – and honestly, it’s an idea that sits quite well with him. Except for other people’s eyes perhaps straying to where they shouldn’t. Geralt wouldn’t pay them any mind, of course. Even now, when he _is_ fully clothed, and they both sit in taverns idly drinking or eating away some of their hard-earned coin, Geralt always has an arm slung around the bard’s shoulders or waist. Or when they sit side by side, their hands will brush against each other’s.

There has always been this constant contact between them. Even during the night, if they weren’t touching before sleep washed over them, by the time they woke the next morning, it’s difficult to tell where one of them begins and another ends.

Geralt buries his nose into Jaskier’s hair. The long sigh that leaves him means that sleep hasn’t wandered far away; it’s intent on lapping over him again. It pulls at Jaskier too. Geralt is so warm, that any chill of the crisp morning outside. And bundled in the Witcher’s arms, underneath a collection of cotton blankets and furs lining the foot of the bed, he’s finding it harder and harder to stay awake.

He turns his head, burying his nose into Geralt’s neck. One of the Witcher’s hands slips underneath the tunic, resting on the small of Jaskier’s back. Geralt hums. “I do prefer you without clothes, though."

**Author's Note:**

> TUMBLRS  
> yourqueenforayear (personal nonsense) || agoodgoddamnshot (writing)


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